the artist
by spider fingers
Summary: The first time he met her, she stood in front of a giant painting of a boy he didn't know, covered in paint with tears running down her face. - Three-shot. Mori/OC. COMPLETED. -
1. the girl

It was like a passing gaze; like when somebody is at an art museum and their gaze scans the paintings, recognizing their beauty but not fully registering it. The memory of that moment, that mere glance of half-hearted recognition, quickly faded into a forgotten memory.

Seeing her the first time was like a passing gaze. She was a scholarship student, like Haruhi, but Mori never really knew of her existence. He didn't even remember seeing her in the halls, or being in the same class as her. The first time he fully recognized her existence was an unimportant moment. She was merely _there_, sitting in the back of the classroom quietly doing her work. He didn't really _see_ her until she passed him and her elbow brushed against his hair, but she didn't look over at him, and he only looked up for a moment then looked away. The only thing he saw was her back; long brown hair, plain and untamed, and cheap clothes that made it obvious she couldn't afford the uniform. Mori didn't see any use in knowing her, and the one second of recognition was gone and he had forgotten all about it.

The second time (Mori actually thought it was the first time, because the real first time shouldn't count) Mori saw her it was not like a passing gaze. A passing gaze was weak and unimportant. This time, the image of her was shocking. The image was burned into his mind, into every pore of his body, because that moment was so breathtakingly beautiful that Mori, for the first time, actually _saw_ her.

She stood in the abandoned classroom, her back to him. She wore no apron, as if she didn't care if her clothes got ruined, which they seemed to be – paint covered her clothes and her face and her hair was pulled back into a messy bun. Her eyes were strangely dark as they peered up at the most magnificent painting Mori has seen, even if it _was_ of a boy he had never seen before, smiling brightly as if somebody was taking a photograph of him.

But it was not this that made Mori see her.

It was the look on her face as she looked at that perfect picture. She had tears streaming down her face, but her mouth was soft, as if she did not feel any true sorrow. Even so, her eyes were full of pain, as if she were reliving a memory – her tears told him enough.

He stood there watching her, unsure of why he even stopped to get a closer look as he passed the room in the first place. He wondered why she left the door open for anybody to witness such a heartbreaking, intimate scene. If it wasn't him it could have been anybody else. But Mori did not truly worry about that. He found himself completely focused on the image of her, her face, the way she gazed at that nameless boy with a gentle, agonized look in her eyes, the way she had painted him so large that it nearly fit the wall.

Then it was gone.

Mori had walked away, and the magic – that one moment of truly seeing – had disappeared. But even so, that image had been carved into his brain and he thought of it all through the week, despite his irritation and futile attempts to erase the obsessive image from his mind.

Nothing changed. He was quiet, as always, during club hours. He took care of Honey and watched his friends bounce around and act as insane as they always did and he watched on with his own smile, a part of it even if he said nothing at all. The normalcies of his passing days were calming, yet even then he thought of her. Of that moment. And he had to allow these useless questions to pop into his head; who is that boy, why was she crying, what happened, who is she?

These questions only frustrated him, and so he found himself at that room again, and was startled to actually see her there.

This time she was not covered in paint and she wasn't crying over that picture. She was sitting on a stool painting on a normal canvas. She held a paintbrush dropping with black ink between her teeth and leaned forward with an intense look on her face, painting an unseen image on that white canvas.

She hadn't noticed him and Mori couldn't bring himself to walk away again, so he just watched her, resting his shoulder against the door frame. He didn't know why he was so fascinated with her, but he was, and he couldn't leave now that her image was once again in his sight – breathing, alive, there, happening now, not a mere memory unforgotten and engraved in his consciousness – so much so that he felt he might be driven insane.

She painted for a long time (Mori didn't know how long) and she finally saw him when she stood to wash her brushes. She didn't look startled, like he thought she might, but her eyes did flicker a little, as if she were afraid of him. She didn't say anything, though, as she walked to the sink and washed her brushes then calmly put them away. She took her painting and slid it behind the front desk, and walked towards Mori.

For a moment he thought she was angry. He thought she might stop in front of him and blow up, losing that eerie calm silence she possessed. But she didn't. She merely brushed past him, and he couldn't help but recognize her touch, and disappeared behind the first corner that she turned on.

All he could do was stand there. Eventually, the lingering scent of her cheap store-bought perfume and thick fresh paint vanished – only then did he leave, too.


	2. the boy

Mori began to feel a sense of irritation as time passed and his curiosity began to grow. He wasn't one to butt his head into other people's business, much less go around trying to figure out something like a name, so he merely referred to his mystery girl as "the artist". Of course he never voiced his unfounded fascination, but in his head all he could see was that girl and her paintbrush.

He couldn't help but want to know more about her, like why she cried that day, who that boy was – but most of all, he wanted to know her name.

He didn't think she would approach him, much less speak to him, yet one day (months after he began to follow her with his eyes) as he paused by that same empty classroom to watch her paint, she was waiting for him.

She stood by the door, arms crossed, expression cautious. When he stopped by the door she straightened, and that was when Mori realized that she must have been expecting him. He had the decency to feel sheepish when he realized she already knew about his interest in her.

"You're Takashi Morinozuka, aren't you?" she asked. Mori realized that this was the first time he had heard her voice; it was surprisingly soft and gentle, despite her fierce stance and the fire in her eyes. He managed to collect himself enough to nod. "You've been disrupting my painting sessions for a while now. I've tried to ignore it, but your presence is unnerving."

Mori couldn't respond. The girl sighed again and ran her hand across her face.

"Okay, listen," she said calmly, "I don't care if you want to stand there like a weirdo and watch me. Just, if you're going to do it, come inside and sit down or something. When you stand by the door like that, it creeps me out."

His lips twitched.

"I bet you're wondering how the scholarship student who lives under a rock knows your name. Well, every girl in my class knows your name. And that's all they talk about. I just wondered why the heck someone like you would be so interested in somebody like me."

Mori said nothing. The girl smiled, and Mori was surprised to feel his heart skip a beat at the gesture.

"I also know you don't talk much, which is good, because if you're going to be sitting in on my painting time, it'd be nice to avoid conversation. Well, come on in then, Morinozuka," she said as she stepped back to make room. Mori hesitated, unsure of why she was so inviting, but obeyed. He sat down at an empty desk and bit his tongue to prevent himself from asking the many questions he was itching to just blurt out.

"Today I'm painting a sunset," she announced grandly as she set up her canvas. "I usually just paint buildings, and sometimes people, but I've decided to try to paint things from memory. The other day I was out late and got to see the sun set first hand. It was amazing. Have you ever seen a sunset?" she asked kindly as she filled up her cup of water, not even glancing up at Mori.

Mori nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him. Without looking up she walked back to her painting area and stretched, smoothing out her skirt as she stared at her white canvas with a surprising gentle tenderness on her face.

"The colors," she murmured as she pulled out a small paintbrush. "They were just begging to be painted."

And then she didn't say anything else for the next two hours. Mori watched her brush strokes, wide and small and sometimes wild. She became absorbed in her painting, losing all sense of the outside world, all of her focus honed in on her art. Sometimes she'd wipe sweat from her face, and shimmering paint colors would smear on her pale skin, and Mori would smile. She was so beautiful in the way she truly seemed to love what she was doing, and how she did it. He felt somewhat honored that she allowed him to sit in.

Once she was finished she cleaned up, as per usual, though didn't bother wiping the paint off of her face. Mori stood as well and as he walked towards the door, he noticed the corner of a canvas sticking out from behind the desk. Over time, he had noticed she always stuffed her finished paintings behind the same desk, and he felt a bit sympathetic when he saw the tipping painting. He reached out towards it to push it back when a small hand suddenly gripped his wrist, preventing him from completing his task.

He turned to look at the artist, who glared at him with a startling look of disgust in her eyes. It quickly faded, though, and she released his hand.

"Don't touch those," she murmured. She leaned forward and fixed the painting, and Mori couldn't help but breathe her in, then she leaned away and the momentary warmth she had given him was quickly replaced with cold. She walked away and, without a backward glance or even a good bye, she left the room. Mori watched her go and looked at the pile of hidden paintings, a spark of uncharacteristic curiosity hitting him. But he ignored it, and he left the classroom after he was sure she was long gone.

**x**

"Look at this. She's still painting Ren."

Mori skidded to a halt, although he wasn't sure how he knew the murmurs were talking about his artist. It might have been because he was passing her empty classroom when he heard the voice, or maybe the fact that they were talking about painting. Either way he stopped, his shoulder lightly hitting the doorframe as he tilted his face toward the half-open classroom. It was unlike him to eavesdrop, but the artist of his seemed to be changing a lot of things about Mori.

"Poor girl," another voice said. Mori recognized the female holding up a canvas of the same boy from all that time ago (the boy that the artist was looking at as she cried silently) as his homeroom teacher. The other voice was vice principal Zennosuke. He looked at the painting with a strangely pitying look in his eyes. "That boy died years ago, we've given her a room for her to paint so she can get her scholarship to that art school in France, and yet she's still hung up on this."

"You can't blame her. They were close. And his death was so sudden," his homeroom teacher said with a sad sigh. "I do hope she heals soon."

Zennosuke put the painting back and Mori walked forward, as if he had never stopped in the first place. He felt guilty for listening in on the conversation. But despite his guilt, he felt closer to her, even if only a little. He knew that he wanted to help heal her, if he could.

But he didn't know how…or if she even wanted help at all.


	3. the kiss

Mori realized that it had been nearly half a year since he first met his artist.

It had been so long since the first day he saw her standing there in that moment of stillness, staring at that boy (Ren, if Mori remembered correctly). Mori wasn't usually a nosy, curious person, but there was something about her that drove him to yearn to know more. He wanted to be closer to her, he wanted to know her more than anybody else in the world. Mori was a bit perturbed at the sudden selfish, greedy thoughts that crossed his mind, but she was changing him. Somehow, deep inside, she was affecting him.

This became painfully obvious when he found himself investigating this "Ren" boy. He felt foolish for doing it, but he would remember the look on her face when she stared at that soft painting of him, and his determination would return ten fold. He wanted to help her, and he had to know what he had to heal if he wanted to do that.

It wasn't very hard to figure everything out. He easily found an article about the boy's death; apparently he had been diagnosed with leukemia as a child but went to school regularly. He had passed away a couple years ago in the hospital.

He didn't know much about his artist's relationship with this Ren boy, but he knew enough. She was close with him and he died. He could only imagine how hard that must have been on her – so hard, it seemed, that she still painted his face in her past time.

"Hey," she said one day as they sat in her painting room. Mori sat at his usual spot near the window and the artist painted on her canvas. All was as it had been for half a year, this comfortable image, merely sitting in the presence of the other. "You're graduating this year, right?"

Mori nodded.

"Everybody is pressuring me to do well," she said in a softer voice. "I mean, yeah, I love art. I love painting. I love it, I really do. I've been doing is for so long that it comes to me as naturally as breathing." She took a deep breath as if to emphasize this point, and breathed out. She smiled at Mori, who watched her quietly, listening. "I've wanted to attend this art school in France for such a long time. If I get the scholarship, I can go there. It's been my dream, but…since someone close to me passed away, I've forgotten my own goals. I don't….I don't know what I want anymore."

She closed her eyes and put her paintbrush down. Mori watched as she leaned back and ran her hands across her face. He could have sworn he heard a soft, shaky sob leave her lips, but there were no tears in her eyes so he assumed he was merely hearing things.

"I've lost my drive. He was the one who encouraged me to follow my dream. When my parents scoffed at my desire to be an artist, he was there at my side cheering me on, encouraging me to move forward. He was my anchor, you know? He made me better. And when he left….I didn't know what to do with myself. Whenever I picked up the paintbrush, nothing except his smiling face came to me. I couldn't draw anything else."

Mori felt something stir in his heart, and it hurt.

"Then I met you," she said. Mori almost fell off the chair in surprise but, ever the coordinated gentleman, he stayed still and merely gazed at her. She smiled at him and looked at her painting. "Even though you didn't say anything, I could tell what you were thinking. I don't know, but there was just something about you…you being here with me, taking up the empty space he was once in…I felt whole again."

She stood and turned to Mori. She gripped her painting and turned it towards him with a wide smile. Mori was stunned to see himself, a perfect painting of his solemn face, turned slightly towards a window overflowing with light. Despite himself, he felt his neck turn hot with embarrassment and pride. She drew him; not Ren, but _him_.

"Now, I think of your face. Cheesy, isn't it?" she asked with a light laugh. "I want to thank you. Even though I found your presence an annoyance at first, you grew on me. Being alone – well, I didn't realize I even felt lonely until you cured it. So, yeah, thank you," she said warmly. She picked up the painting and handed it to Mori. "Here, you can keep it. Your own self-portrait. How fancy."

He smiled and took it.

"Oh," she said, impressed. "What a cute smile. I may have to paint that, too."

**x**

Graduation was strange, to say the least.

Mori had breezed by the rest of the year with ease. Classes were never changing, and the Host Club proved to be as entertaining and chaotic as ever. But his artist…she was always there, in that room, waiting for him with a new smile every afternoon. She painted different things, scenic and architectural images, and sometimes people. He noticed that her old pile of Ren portraits were gone, and he could tell she was trying to get over him.

After another half of a year, Mori was finally done with school and a part of him was slightly relieved. As fun as his days passed, it was also quite exhausting.

He didn't see his artist at graduation, and he had to slip past the host club members so he could seek her out. The first place he found himself in was that empty classroom he met her in everyday. The door, like always, was slightly ajar. He saw her standing in front of her canvas and, to his surprise, finished paintings rested against the wall and on the floor.

"Oh," she noticed him when the door creaked open slightly, "Mori."

He stepped inside and she set her brush down. "You graduate today, don't you?"

He nodded.

"Sadly I graduate next year," she said. Mori tried to hold back his surprise. For some reason, he thought she was the same year as him. She seemed to notice his reaction because she laughed lightly. "Yeah, I'm younger than you. Shocker. Ah, now that I think about it, you don't know much about me, do you…? And I don't know a lot about you."

Mori didn't reply. She walked towards him, her face strangely sad. "I'll miss you, you know. It'll be empty without you."

He felt that pang of sorrow in his heart again.

"Of course, I'm happy for you. I heard you're going to America?" she asked. Mori nodded. "Well, maybe we'll meet again some day, huh? Fate is funny that way. It brought you to this room, didn't it? I think God is on our side," she said in a teasing tone, smiling up at him.

At that moment, Mori felt enraptured. For some reason, knowing this was the last time he would see her made him bold, desperate…her eyes looked unusually soft, her face strangely beautiful…he felt sad, knowing this was their last meeting.

So he kissed her.

It only lasted a few moments; his lips brushed hers and then it was gone. He pulled away and felt his mind grow light at the tingling sensation on his lips. She merely gazed up at him in shock, her cheeks flushed a dark red, eyes wide. It was the first time he saw such a look on her face before, and it made a somewhat satisfied feeling well in his throat.

"Wha…" she sputtered. "Did you just…?"

He smiled and nodded. She shook her head and began to laugh. She reached for his hand and grabbed it, squeezing his warmth in an attempt to memorize this moment and this feeling.

"Well, I suppose it's alright," she said with a chuckle. "You're going away for a long time, so one kiss shouldn't do much harm. If I become a famous artist, I'll definitely find you again, alright?"

"Alright," he said softly.

She didn't seem too shocked that he spoke, though her face did seem to light up slightly. She released his hand and walked to her half-finished painting. Mori suddenly realized it was a picture of him smiling. He felt his neck go hot again and she waved him over. With a smile brighter than the one she was painting, he walked towards her.

"By the way," she said as she watched him approach, "I don't think you know my name. It's Chinatsu."

He tested it out; "Chinatsu."

She blushed. "Ah ah ah! Such an intimate way to call my name! I never knew you were this bold," she chided with a small chuckle. Mori stopped beside her and tried not to touch her, even though his fingertips burned with desire. "Can I call you by your first name too?"

He nodded. She didn't notice him lean towards her for another kiss, and before their lips met she was able to murmur one single breath of a name –

"Takashi."


End file.
